A Dangerous Combination
by Kat Darklighter
Summary: A sequel to my series "Wonderland." I highly suggest reading that one first if you have not done so. An AU containing slash, Hardycest, violence -some of the domestic sort-, language, and drug use.
1. Chapter 1

It's a nice afternoon, the kind that makes me not really mind not having a car. I have a gig in a little bar a few miles from here, and while the guitar and the messenger bag containing my music will probably be feeling like it weighs a hundred pounds by the time I get there, I'm actually kind of enjoying the fresh air. It helps me clear my mind a little, and that's definitely something I need to practice doing.

Somehow, though, as I make my way down sidewalks and across streets, paying little attention to the traffic that's blowing by me, I can't get the thoughts of Matt and Jeff completely under control. I chalk it up to everyone having their weakness. I've got two weaknesses, and actually, they're pretty fucking strong, especially when it comes to breaking my self control.

Now, even though I've been trying not to think about either of them, I can't pretend that these are bad memories I'm trying to keep at bay. I mean, Jeff finding me coked out of my mind and luring me back to his apartment for a threesome with him and his brother is not something I find to be particularly unpleasant to think about. I ended up fucked six ways from Sunday, and more satisfied than I ever thought I could be.

Until I left Jeff's apartment the next day, there was actually a thought in my mind that maybe this would all turn out okay. Sleeping there, in bed with both of them, gave me some glimmer of hope that maybe things wouldn't change too much. Maybe I wouldn't be left out in the cold, after all.

Sobering up and walking back to my place, though, kind of put everything in perspective. If I was going to continue to see them, even one at a time, this was always going to be the end result: me walking back home, by myself. Leaving the two of them to their own devices; the ones I'd been pushing so hard for them to give into.

I decided then that I was just going to back off. I installed a deadbolt on my front door and remembered to always keep it locked, especially when I was home, so that Jeff couldn't take advantage of the key he has yet to give back. I ignored the ringing phone and did my best to stay occupied with music, and whatever else had nothing to do with either of them.

I couldn't change my ways completely, though, at least not all at once. I still went down to the Pocket on occasion. I'd have a few beers (and sometimes a few lines when my heart was really bleeding), trying to ignore the two of them all happy and cuddled up in that corner booth. Of course they tried their hardest to talk to me, and I always did my best to be cordial while trying to give them the hint that I had other things on my agenda.

Problem was, I didn't. My agenda consisted of nothing but guitar, cocaine, and jerking off to the thought of having them both at the same time. I usually left the bar with some random woman on my arm, ending up fucking her in her car or up against the wall in some alley (never taking her back to my bed, where the pillow on the left side still smelled like Jeff's shampoo), trying to remember her name and then deciding it wasn't worth the effort.

It wasn't the ideal situation, but it was working. It went on that way for about a month, until my phone rang at two a.m. and I had to pick it up, not being able to shake the thought that maybe someone was dead. Matt's voice on the other end, and I almost, _almost _hung up. But something in his voice made me keep listening.

_"'Lo?"_

_"Chris. I'm at Jeff's. Um, listen, can you come over? We've been tryin' not to bother you, I guess you've made your decisions and all, but, uh, this is pretty important." His voice lowered, and he added, "It's late. I'm sorry, but Jeff's askin' for you."_

_Jeff was asking for me. I had no idea what that meant, but the edge of panic in Matt's voice made it impossible for me to refuse. I found myself on my way to Jeff's without hardly remembering getting dressed and leaving my own apartment. I was hoping that it was some sort of stupid, junior high school fight that they'd gotten into, and they just wanted me to help them sort it out. But remembering the way Matt had sounded made me walk faster and faster until I was sprinting down the sidewalk._

_I didn't bother to knock when I got there, just ran right in, and into Matt. Literally. I guess he'd been standing just inside the door, presumably waiting for me. He caught me and kept us both upright, and then reached back and closed the door behind me. Seeing his face made me wish I hadn't been staying away._

_He was haggard and tired looking, dark circles and lines of stress on his face making him look ten years older. Not only that, but his lip was split and there were various other cuts and bruises on his face and arms, some old, and some looking fairly new._

_"Jesus, Matt, what the fuck is going on?! Are you all right? Where's Jeff?!"_

_Matt just looked at me, more stoic and solemn than I had ever seen him before. He disregarded my questions about what was going on and if he was all right, but he answered my question about Jeff's location by reaching up and pointing toward the bedroom._

_I looked a question at him, but he didn't seem like he was going to elaborate any further, so I turned and ran down the hall toward the bedroom I'd spent so many nights in. Even if Matt had given me a heads-up, I don't think anything could have prepared me for what I found there._

_Jeff was sitting up in bed, wearing nothing but a pair of grey boxer shorts that probably used to be white. His body was shining with sweat, beads of it dripping off his forehead and down his sides, enough so that the bedsheets were wet beneath him. He was breathing hard through tightly clinched teeth, making sounds in his throat like he was trying to hold back screams. His hands were clinched into fists, and he was pounding his knuckles into the thick muscle of his left thigh, which was currently an angry red and probably tomorrow would be black and blue. His face, like Matt's, was bruised and swollen, but Jeff also had more marks across his stomach, legs, and the insides of his forearms. They looked like deep fingernail scratches. There was a bucket beside the bed, and the sickening smell of vomit that assaulted me when I entered the room told me what it contained. _

_My brain wasn't connecting the scene quickly enough. I should've known exactly what was happening, but I was shocked stupid. I had no idea._

_"Jeff!"_

_His head jerked toward me, and he instantly tried to climb out of bed. His leg gave way beneath him, though, and he tumbled to the floor, screaming in pain and frustration._

_"Jeff, what the hell is the matter?! What are you doing?!"_

_"Chris.. Chris, ohmygod, I'm so glad you're here. I'm so sick, Chris. I'm so, so fucking sick and you're the only one that can help me." He started crawling toward me, but seemed to have no control over his lower extremities. After a second of watching him try to move toward me, pathetically dragging his legs behind him like a paraplegic devoid of a wheelchair, I ran to him. Dropping to my knees on the floor, he curled into the fetal position in my arms, shaking so hard now that I could hear his teeth chattering._

_"Jeff, please tell me what's happening! Why are you hurt? Why is Matt hurt? I need to know what's going on!"_

_"I'm sick. I'm sick. Oh god, please help me, Chris. I need something, anything! Please tell me you have __**something!**__ I won't even slam it, Chris, I swear. No needles! I'll just smoke a little, just to take the edge off. Oh, god, it's fucking agony!" He turned to grab at his leg again, and I could see the muscle moving beneath his skin in what looked to be one motherfucker of a cramp._

_Oh. The pieces all fell together then, and reality crept up on me and hit me upside the head with its sledgehammer._

_Heroin withdrawal. The worst experience on the face of the planet, as told by anyone who has ever been through it._

_"Oh, baby..." I pulled him up against me, holding him tighter as he began to cry, still begging me to find him something to make him feel better. His skin was icy to the touch and soaked in cold sweat, and I repeatedly brushed wet strands of hair out of his face, rocking him back and forth slowly._

_"Chris. I missed you. I wish you would've come to see me. But you're here now and that's all that matters. Chris, I'm not feelin' so hot. I just need something, something. Something to make it just a little better. Then I'll be able to manage this, I swear it. Just this once, one time. I'll give you anything you want in return. I know you've missed me. You can have anything you want."_

_His words were accompanied by his hands as he turned toward me and slid them beneath my shirt, touching bare skin. I let him touch me, hoping maybe it would comfort him at least a little. But when his hands slid lower, groping for the fly of my jeans, I grabbed his wrists. He put up a struggle, but he was so weak, it wasn't much of one._

_"Jeff, please don't do that," I whispered to him, pinning his wrists easily and holding him tighter against me. At my words, my refusal to accept sexual favors in exchange for drugs, he screamed and cried and struggled against me like a two year old that has been denied a new toy._

_I held him tight and closed my eyes, trying to mentally brace myself for this. When I opened them, I saw Matt standing in the doorway. I didn't know how long he'd been there; I'd been too caught up in Jeff. But I guess it was probable to think he'd been there since the beginning. Been there to see the love of his life try to whore himself out for drugs._

_Matt didn't move, he didn't speak. He just stood there in the doorway, watching us. His arms were crossed over his chest and although he didn't make a single sound, his lower lip was quivering and tears were freely flowing down his cheeks. We held eye contact for about a minute before he dropped his head dejectedly, and turned to walk back into the living room._

_I disentangled myself from Jeff, standing up and then doing my best to half carry, half drag his dead weight into the bathroom. I ran a tub of almost scalding hot water, divested him of his underwear and helped him into the bath, making sure he could recline without the water being up over his head. He sunk appreciatively into the water, sniffling and slowing the flow of tears. He looked up at me like he wasn't sure whether or not I was real, and said, "'s nice. Warmer. Thanks." And then closed his eyes and rested his head against the edge of the tub._

_I took off my shirt that was soaked in sweat and tears, and then headed for the living room where Matt was on the couch, chainsmoking with a bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him. After a long swig of whiskey, I sat down beside him and gave him his turn to cry into my chest._

_"When he was still able to walk, he'd try to get to the front door and we'd beat the hell out of each other when I'd get in his way," he said after he was done crying, sitting up and wiping his face. "He said he hated me, that I was a horrible brother, and that if I really loved him I would make him feel better."_

_"Jesus, Matt, how long has he been like this?"_

_"Two days. The muscle cramps finally got so bad that he can barely get to the bathroom, so I guess I don't have to worry about him makin' a break for the door anymore." He paused, sighed, and took another drink. "I'm sorry I had to call you in on this, Chris. I know it's the last thing you need. I just didn't know what else to do, especially when he started askin' for you. I thought maybe seein' you would make him feel better. I didn't know he'd... do what he did."_

_"Matt, you should've called me the second this started! I should've been here for him.. and for you. I'm so fuckin' sorry I've been avoiding you guys. I just wanted to give you both a chance to be together."_

_So much for that. For the next several days, I lived in Jeff's apartment with him and Matt. I slept on the couch the first night, if you could call it sleeping. Jeff didn't sleep; couldn't sleep, because he was in so much pain with the leg and stomach cramps. I laid there until Jeff would call for me, and then go running into his room like a nervous dad who has his newborn baby home for the first time._

_Matt and I tried to feed him, but he couldn't keep anything down. The physical toll that the lack of drugs was taking on his body was horrible, for sure. I was up every hour, holding Jeff's hair back while he threw up, getting him glasses of water, massaging his tortured muscles. But the mental and emotional effect seemed to be even worse. Matt was there in bed with him the whole time, holding him while he cried, screamed, threatened and begged for a fix. He would try to crawl out of bed to get to the door (and on one terrifying occasion, the window) and we would have to physically restrain him, which caused him to curse us both to hell and worse._

_We slept when he slept, and after the first time, I didn't even bother trying to sneak out to the couch. Matt slept on one side of him and me on the other, though it was never restful sleep. Jeff would toss and turn and cry, his legs uncontrollably kicking and twisting in the sheets. I guess they don't call it "kicking the habit" for no reason._

_After a couple of days, the worst of the symptoms thankfully subsided. Jeff became much more coherent, and in less pain. At first he refused any sort of medication at all, but eventually started accepting aspirin for the for the residual cramps. He was so weak from the lack of sleep and food, he still couldn't get out of bed without help. But after what seemed like an eternity in hell, he no longer seemed like he was going to claw out his own jugular if he couldn't get a fix._

_It happened on my fifth day of "junkie-sitting," I think, although the days had all blurred together. I was walking down the hallway, out of Jeff's room, with the empty plastic tray I had served him lunch on earlier. Matt was walking down the hallway toward Jeff's room with his arms full of clean sheets. We paused, giving each other a tentative smile of reassurance, daring to hope that we'd gotten through the worst._

_"Is he asleep?" Matt asked, voice low._

_"Yeah. Passed out cold. I think he may actually get a few hours this time. God, he needs it. I guess we all do."_

_"I'm so tired, I don't think I could sleep if I tried." He glanced down at the laundry he was holding. "Guess I'll wait to change these. Fucked if I'm gonna wake him up. I'll just set 'em on the chair in there." He moved to do just that at the same time that I started to continue my trek to the kitchen. We bumped into each other and laughed, but neither one of us moved backward. We laughed, and then stopped laughing, and then stared._

_Matt moved first, but I was only about a nanosecond behind him. The pile of sheets he'd been holding hit the floor, muffling the sound of the tray falling from my hands as it landed on top of them. _

_I was shoved into the wall first, and then we spun and I was pressing Matt against it. Our mouths were crushed together so hard that I tasted blood, and didn't care whose it was. He was clinging to me like a drowning man to a piece of floating debris, and I know I was hanging on to him hard enough to probably make breathing difficult._

_Matt turned us again, putting me back against the wall, and even though he and I are about the same size, he hoisted me up like I weighed nothing at all. I instinctively wrapped my legs around his waist and buried my hands in his hair, getting light headed because I couldn't breathe, and not giving a fuck about it. _

_We stayed like that for several minutes, making out like teenagers and dry-grinding against each other. After the initial desperation wore off, logic began worming its way into my head. I knew this was not going to happen. It could not. We were here because of Jeff; Jeff who was currently going through the worst experience of his life and lay sleeping not ten feet away._

_Matt seemed to be reading my mind, because I felt him tense, and he pulled his lips from mine as if the contact had suddenly burned him. I sighed and leaned my chin on his shoulder, speaking with my lips against his ear._

_"Don't drop me."_

_He didn't. He set me back to my feet, and then took a couple of steps back, evacuating himself from my personal space. I stayed leaning against the wall, and he nearly collapsed against the opposite one, panting._

_"Fuck, Chris, I'm sorry. That.. I.. don't even know."_

_"Yeah, I.. I'm sorry, too. I've just been so fuckin' stressed out. I just needed to feel something other than... that." A vague glance toward Jeff's bedroom door made my point, and Matt nodded in understanding and agreement. "Hey, listen. I think I'm gonna take off for a while. Get some real sleep. He's out, and I think he'll stay out for a while. And he's doing so much better now... you'll probably be able to handle it. Call me, though.. if you need anything."_

_He nodded, averting his eyes, uncomfortable. I knew then that things would always be uncomfortable between us, all of us. Too much had happened._

_I turned and started for the door, and he reached out and grabbed my wrist, spinning me back toward him like some sort of choreographed dance move. We ended up pressed chest to chest, and he put his hands on the sides of my face and kissed me. Not like he'd been kissing me a minute ago, but kissing me like people kiss in romance novels and sappy movies. His lips melded perfectly against mine, and I very literally swooned in his arms. He kissed me like he loved me, like he would drown without my breath in his lungs, and I thought for a moment that if this is how he kisses Jeff every time, I don't blame Jeff for choosing him over me._

_When he pulled back from the kiss, he rested his forehead against mine and held me, whispering, "thank you. Thank you for everything." And then he let go, turned, and disappeared into Jeff's bedroom._

I haven't seen either of them since.

________________

The place is small and the crowd is smaller, but I don't mind that. I have no idea what it's like playing to an auditorium of hundreds or even thousands of people, but I imagine that this way, it's a lot more personal. When I'm playing to a crowd of twenty, and I can see their faces, watch their reactions, it gives me a satisfaction that I don't think I would have if I was just staring into a spotlight and looking out over a wave of unrecognizable bodies.

Now, I do have a band, theoretically; when I can get them all together in the same room. It's a hard thing to do; they all have their own lives and jobs, and most of the time they don't even like each other. The band, for them, is a part-time hobby. I'm the only one that makes music part of my life. So the majority of the time, like now, I play solo acoustic: sitting alone on a stage in a dimly lit room, microphone in front of me and guitar on my lap, hoping that something I say will have some sort of impact on someone that listens.

Overall, the show goes pretty well. I'm even able to sell a couple of CDs afterward, which puts a little extra cash in my pocket. They're not the best quality; I cashed in a favor that bought me a few recording hours in some guy's basement/studio, but I guess they're okay for underground acoustic shit. Maybe next time I'll actually get the boys together and come up with a collaboration.

I'm packing up my guitar and sheets of music when there's a voice behind me. Low and husky, it's the sound of too many cigarettes and shots of southern whiskey.

"That was a pretty good set."

I turn around quickly, laying eyes on a man I've never seen before. He'd scared me a little; being paranoid in places you don't frequent is something that you learn pretty quick after you get pounded into the pavement a few times for wearing eyeliner and having long hair. It's always good to be on your guard, and I mentally berate myself for allowing someone to sneak up behind me in the first place.

The guy is tall and broad; built like a brick shithouse, as they say. Corded biceps are straining against his too-small black t-shirt that says "STAFF" across the chest in stark white lettering. His head is shaved to a sleek shine, and he's sporting a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee.

In short, he looks just like the backwoods deer huntin' country boys that get their rocks off by committing hate crimes against people like me.

"Thanks," I reply, waiting to see if this is going to turn into a brawl. I'm hopin' he don't have none of his kinfolk hidin' in the woodwork, and wishing that someone I knew would've come to see me play.

"Name's Steve," he says, amicably enough, extending his hand.

Still feeling plenty wary, I reach out and take his hand for a shake. "Chris."

"Nice meetin' ya, Chris."

"Yeah, you too. You work here, I imagine?"

"Yeah, I'm the bouncer. Get to take care of all the drunks that come here and start actin' foolish." He grins at that, and I get the idea that he really likes his job. I guess it takes a special breed to enjoy beating people up every day. The thought crosses my mind that next time I see Matt, I should encourage him toward such a career.

"Sounds like fun," I smile, not really knowing how to reply. I pick up my guitar case and the messenger bag with my lyrics, hoisting the bag over my shoulder. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Steve. I guess I'll be on my way."

"I saw you when you first got here, since I was on the door. You walked up. Ain't you gotta car?"

"Nah. Can't afford it. I don't mind walking places. Helps clear my head, most the time. I only live a couple miles from here."

"You gonna walk a couple miles with that guitar on your back? Looks heavy."

"It's fine. I walked down here, didn't I?"

"I'll take you home."

He doesn't present it as a question, or a friendly offer. It's a simple statement, which is followed by him turning and heading toward the door, apparently assuming I'm going to follow him. Uneasiness sinks into my stomach. He seems friendly enough, but why demand to a total stranger that you're giving him a ride home? Seems kind of weird to me, and I have no intention of actually getting into his car. I do, however, have to follow him out, because the exit he's heading for is the only one I can see. I guess he knew I wouldn't have a choice except to accompany him at least as far as the parking lot.

As soon as I hit pavement, I turn and start walking the other direction, but he calls out to me.

"Hey, Chris! My truck is right here."

I sigh and turn to look, and he's standing against a black pick-up in fairly good condition. It doesn't seem like the type of vehicle a kidnapper or a mass murderer would drive. There's no cover over the truckbed; no place to hide a body. I've got my leather jacket on, but the chill of the impending evening is still crisp enough to be felt. And a couple of miles is starting to sound like an awfully long way.

I turn and make my way back toward his truck, hoisting my guitar and canvas bag into the bed. He smiles as if this pleases him, and tells me to hop in. I do so.

No blood stains on the seats, no razorblades on the doorlocks. This is looking pretty good. I give him the directions, and we drive for a while in silence before the uncomfortable stillness prompts me to speak.

"So do you always offer rides to strangers who don't need them?"

"Just the pretty blonde ones who don't have a way home."

His statement makes me pause, and look over at him, taking in his appearance a little closer. Pretty blonde ones? Maybe this guy has something on his agenda that I didn't suspect. He's not wearing a wedding ring. Is it possible that he's actually hitting on me?

I surprise myself by deciding that the thought is not an entirely unpleasant one.

We make idle small talk on the ride, which thankfully doesn't last more than a few minutes, because idle small talk really isn't my forte. He sees the sign for the Corner Pocket as we drive by, and asks if I've ever been there. I'm very tempted to say, "oh, Steve-o, if only you knew!" but am able to keep my response to a minimal "once in a while."

When he pulls up outside my apartment building, he suggests that we meet for a beer sometime, and I give him a noncommittal agreement. He produces a business card from his pocket that features the name of the bar we just came from. Below that it says "Steve Austin, Head of Security" and lists two telephone numbers: business and personal. I take the card and thank him, sliding out of the truck and telling myself I'll probably never end up dialing that 'personal' number. As I'm closing the door, he grins lopsidedly at me and tells me to give him a call next time I need a ride.

He drives off and I head toward my door, but my attention is grabbed by a figure sitting on the pavement. He's leaning against the wall of my building, wearing a hoodie that partially masks his face, and holding a paper cup in which he's collecting spare change from kind passersby. I hate to even think it to myself, but he reminds me of Jeff.

I hand the kid all the change that I've got in my pocket, and then turn and start walking the couple of blocks toward Jeff's place before I really even realize what I'm doing.

_______________

As I let myself in through the front door without knocking, I can hear Jeff's taunting voice in my head, telling me that I'm such a _goddamned hypocrite_. I buy a deadbolt, and then barge right in on him without notice. I know the imaginary voice is right.

I ease my conscience by telling myself that I just want to check up on him since I haven't seen him at all after the junkie-sitting, as I've started calling it in my head. And if he's asleep, I don't want to wake him up. I'll just be in and out, he won't even know I was there.

Jeff is nowhere to be seen, and the apartment is quiet. The door to his bedroom is mostly closed, standing ajar only about six inches. Of course he's asleep, I decide. Maybe I'll leave a little note tacked to the door. "Just checking in. Love, Chris."

Except maybe I'll take out the "love" part.

I walk as quietly as I can down the hall and crane my head a little to look into his bedroom. I don't know why. Okay, that's a lie. I want to see him sleeping, peaceful and serene, after the state he was in last time I was here. It'll put another healing stitch in my heart. And if Matt's sleeping next to him, well, maybe that'll even make things better. Then again, maybe not.

As a matter of fact, Jeff _is _in bed, as I find out when I peer through the crack in the door. And as it turns out, Matt _is _with him.

Jeff is lying on his side and Matt is pressed flush against his back. The bend of Jeff's knee is being supported in the crook of Matt's elbow, keeping his leg elevated as Matt moves inside him from behind. Matt's other hand is wrapped around the bar of the headboard, using it for leverage as he pushes repeatedly into his brother, his movements remarkably slow and controlled. Their bodies move against each other easily, slicked with sweat and lube, but neither of them seems to be in any hurry. Matt's face is buried in the hair that lies against Jeff's neck, and he's murmuring quiet words that I'm too far away to be able to understand.

Jeff's face is the personification of pure bliss. He's hardly making any noise at all, though occasionally he'll moan and his lips will curl in a small smile, presumably a response to whatever Matt is whispering to him.

I know I should leave, I _know _that. This is none of my business, and I can feel myself falling downward, back into that black hole I've been trying so hard to crawl out of. But the look on Jeff's face and the slow, tender movement of Matt's body puts me into a sort of a trance, and I can't make myself look away. I'm not even painfully aware of the hard-on I've developed in the few seconds I've been watching them, although I'm sure the walk back home is going to be an embarrassing one.

I don't know exactly how long I've been standing here, but eventually Matt starts moving a little faster, his hand tightening its grip on the headboard until his knuckles go white with the strain. Jeff responds to the impending culmination, dropping a hand down to his cock and fisting himself almost lazily, still in no rush to be finished with this.

Matt's moans are muffled by Jeff's skin as he kisses and sucks heatedly at the side of his throat, and Jeff's hand moves a little faster, his eyelids rolling behind the lids and his jaw hanging slack. After a few more minutes, Jeff starts making a noise somewhere between whimpering and keening, and reaches behind him with his free hand, grabbing at the back of Matt's head. Matt lets go of the headboard and entwines his fingers with Jeff's, bracing his feet against the mattress as best he can so that he can snap his hips a little harder, a little faster.

Matt comes first, his hips faltering in their rhythm as he buries himself as deep as he can, sobbing dryly into Jeff's hair. Jeff follows just seconds behind, coming all over his hand while moaning Matt's name. The contractions of Jeff's muscles while he climaxes makes Matt gasp and thrust one last time, panting for lost breath. He slowly lowers Jeff's leg and settles against him more fully, wrapping his arms around his little brother and holding him close.

"I love you," Matt says.

"I love you, too," Jeff answers, and I turn to head for the door.

* * *

Walking home, I can't really say that I'm feeling much of anything. I guess I've become pretty numb. I keep repeating to myself over and over that this is all my doing. I wanted them to be happy, and now I've seen first hand that they really are.

When I get back to my place, I sit on the couch and flip on my rarely used television, surfing channels and desperately trying to find something to grab my attention. When that doesn't work, I turn on the radio to try and lose myself in something meaningful, but every single song that comes on somehow reminds me of them.

Fuck it all, I decide then and there.

I turn the tuning dial until I find the heaviest thing I can, turn it up, and then head for the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I open the nightstand drawer and dig out the kit from underneath all the random papers and receipts, and use the razorblade to cut a few lines on the surface of the nightstand. Reaching into my jeans pocket, I extract a dollar bill and roll it into a tight, neat little straw.

After a couple of passes with the buck, after the sting is gone and my eyes stop watering, I notice something lying on the bedspread. I guess it fell out of my pocket while I was digging for the dollar.

I look at it for a minute, contemplating. But the cocaine (_and the pieces of my heart_) tells me to stop thinking for just one fucking minute, and_ do something_. I comply.

I pick up Steve's business card, grab the phone, and dial the number.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Alrighty, here we go... into uncharted territory. This arc of the story features characters I have _never _written before, so any and all feedback is much appreciated. Hope you're still liking the direction, even if we're veering away from Matt and Jeff's fucked up lives... but don't worry, they'll pop up again soon. ;)**

"This is Steve. State your name and your business and I'll return the call."

Fucking voicemail. After the mechanical tone, I wait for a minute to see if anything semi-clever comes out of my mouth, but nothing seems to be happening so I just hang up and toss the phone aside.

The thought of calling Jeff automatically pops into my head, because that's what I always used to do when I'd just done a line or two and was looking for some good company. But of course I can't do that now. Bringing back the thought of seeing him and Matt tangled up in each other, exchanging kisses and sweet words, is enough to bring tears brimming. It's just the coke, you know. Of course it is.

I guess I'll see if I can turn this high into something creative. Maybe go on one of my infamous guitar benders, writing down bad lyrics and playing bullshit chords until my fingers are bloody. Maybe I'll dig out the old shoebox under the bed and find some porn to turn on, jerk off until I'm exhausted and maybe catch some sleep. I could always go down to the Pocket, pick up some random broad and pretend that I like women for fifteen minutes, long enough to get off on something that has nothing to do with my own hand and thoughts of my ex-boyfriend and his brother.

Instead, I decide to just sit on my bed and feel sorry for myself. Jesus, what kind of life have I made for myself? I'm kind of glad that I don't have any friends. I wouldn't want to subject any poor innocent soul to the mess that is me.

The phone rings at what I calculate to be about a third of the way through my pity party. I've already forgotten about the call I made. I consider not picking it up for a moment. Lately, when I get phone calls, they're never good news. But I'm high and bored and lonely, and I decide that barring somebody being dead, there's nothing on the other end of that phone that could bring me any lower than I already am.

"Hello."

"Identify yourself."

What? A voice I barely recognized, although it did sound familiar. "Um. You called me. Who is this?"

"... Chris?"

"Who the hell is this?"

There's a gruff chuckle on the other end of the line, and it becomes completely clear who I'm talking to.

"Oh! Steve. Hey, man, sorry. Sorry, I forgot I called you..."

"What's up? Forget somethin' in my truck?"

"No, I... I don't know, I saw your card layin' there and so I just.. dialed. Sorry, I, um.. I'm not in the clearest state of mind right now."

"Y'all right?"

The cocaine high is full on now, and my heart is pounding so hard that I can feel my pulse behind my eyes. The rushing blood is giving me a hard-on, something that almost always happens, but I can usually ignore it. His voice, though... his voice with that thick Southern drawl is doing absolutely nothing to abate my arousal. My subconscious is screaming at me that I'm being an idiot, and that sweet drug flowing through my veins is telling me to get him over here. Now. The coke wins, as it always does, because it pretty much kills any shred of self-consciousness that I had to begin with, which isn't much at all.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I just.. I'm just here, by myself. Don't really wanna be."

He's silent for a moment. The tension builds so hard and fast that I can almost literally feel it, tightening my muscles and making my stomach flutter. I bite down on my lip to stifle a groan before I even realize that my hand is lazily stroking my erection through my jeans.

Maybe it's just my imagination, but it seems like when he speaks again, his voice is lower, rougher. "I was on my way home, but I ain't there yet. Ya want me to turn around?"

"Hell yes."

Victory is mine.

* * *

I take the opportunity to jump in the shower real quick, the steaming water doing absolutely nothing to kill my buzz. Toweling off and getting dressed, I keep hoping to hell that I didn't misread any of Steve's signals. I throw on the loosest pair of jeans I own, doing my best to hide my physical excitement, just in case I was totally wrong and he thinks he's on his way over here to drink a beer and watch a ballgame.

I make myself wait a few seconds after he knocks before I answer the door, not wanting to look too desperate.

When I do open the door, he's standing there still in his bar uniform, with a six pack of Budweiser in his hand. Sonofabitch. He'd better not say anything about sports.

"Hey. C'mon in."

And so he does, sauntering past me and setting the beer down on the coffee table. "Stopped by the liquor store on my way here. Help yourself, it's cold," he says, and I do, because alcohol always makes the high just that much better. Neither of us bother to sit; we just stand there, facing each other, each with a beer in hand, drinking to mask the pauses that are growing more and more awkward.

"So why'd ya call me, Chris?"

A myriad of possible answers flood my brain all at once, and I can't decide on any of them. 'Oh, just thought maybe you'd want to hang out,' 'I just got my hands on some primo shit, was wondering if you were interested in that kinda stuff,' 'because my boyfriend broke up with me to fuck his brother and now I'm depressed and horny.'

None of them sound real great, but my lips are moving way before my brain has any fucking clue.

"Because it seemed like maybe you were comin' onto me earlier. And I had a chance to sit around and think about it. And I decided that if you see somethin' that you like... you're welcome to it."

He smirks a little at that, his eyes gleaming, and he just nods his head slowly, as if in contemplation. I can feel his eyes on me, drinking me in from my wet hair to my bare feet, and the sensation sends thrills of electricity to my stomach and groin. He lifts the can of beer to his lips and starts chugging it, and I happily follow suit. Apparently this is not a man that would let a good, cold beer go to waste, even at the prospect of getting laid. I can dig it.

With our beer cans empty and discarded onto the coffee table, he reaches out and pulls me toward him, closing the distance and then winding his big hands into the wet strands of my hair. Even that small contact is enough to make me moan, and I know I'm looking up at him like a bitch in heat, just begging him for the next move.

He leans down like he's going to kiss me and I tilt my head to the side, closing my eyes in anticipation. The kiss never comes, however, and the air seems to be filling with a tension that has nothing to do with sex.

"Whatsthematter?" I mumble, forcing my eyes open again to look at him hopefully.

"What are you on?"

"Hmm? What do you mean?"

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, letting his hands drop from my head. "Chris, I work in a bar. Fuck, I practically live there. If I had a dime for every crossfaded shithead that I had to throw out, I'd be a rich man. I can tell when somebody's amped. Your eyes are blue; I noticed that in my truck earlier. They're gorgeous. Right now your pupils are so blown, ya can't even tell. Your heart's pumpin' so hard your teeth are nearly chatterin', and you had that hard-on before I ever touched you. So, what is it? A little society high?"

His words hit a nerve, and like pulling the plug from a drain, my previous arousal is gone and I can feel the anger boiling up to replace it. Fucking self righteous bastard thinks just because I'm looking for a little bit of comfort, he can come in here and start telling me how to live my life? I shove my hands against his shoulders, but I'm a little unsteady on my feet and he's a lot more solid than I am. My shove does nothing except force me back a few paces, which just pisses me off even more.

"Yeah, well, it's none of your goddamned business what I do, I only invited you over here for one fuckin' thing, and --"

He raises his hands in a harmless gesture, letting me distance myself from him without protest. "Whoa, whoa, Chris. I ain't tryin' to tell ya what to do. I just met ya a fuckin' hour ago. Jesus, I don't even know your last name. And I'm not sayin' that I ain't interested. I'm just sayin' that nothin's gonna happen between us while you're blasted. Jesus, especially not the first time. I'd feel like I was takin' advantage. I like you, Chris. I wanna get to know ya. And if ya ever do wake up next to me... I want ya to remember who I am."

I look away at his words, my previous anger quickly losing its heat and giving way to something akin to shame. Leave it to me to invite a random guy over for a quick fuck, and having him turn into Mr. Decent on me. I'll add that to my list of Things Chris Jericho Can Feel Sorry For Himself About.

When he closes in again, I'm too embarrassed to try and stop him. He puts his arms around me, and I shudder against him, overwhelmed simply by the feeling of being this close to someone who is a virtual stranger. A stranger that I am apparently not going to be having sex with, which means the closeness is... what? Genuine? Before I can come up with a proper word for what I'm feeling, he presses his lips to my ear and whispers.

"Another time, maybe. Ya still have my card."

I'm too confused about the sudden turn of events to be able to do anything but stand there and look at him with what I'm sure is a stupid expression on my face. He lets go of me and turns, sauntering toward the door.

"Jericho," I blurt out finally, not being able to think of anything else to say.

He opens the door and then turns back toward me, cocking his head to the side like a curious dog. "What?"

"My last name. It's Jericho."

"Well, all right, Jericho. I'll catch ya 'round." He flashes me that lopsided grin that makes my heart flutter in my chest, and then disappears through the door.

I stand there, trying to go over everything that has just happened, but my sense of time is so fucked up that I don't even know how long its been since I played that gig in Steve's bar. I don't know why I called him in the first place. I don't know how to feel about him showing up, and then leaving again. I guess I should be ashamed, or at the very least, offended. I can't think about Matt, or Jeff, or what I'm supposed to do with myself now that I've been left to my own devices. I am currently capable of only one thought.

He said I had gorgeous eyes.

* * *

Somehow, I'm able to wait four whole days before I decide to walk back to Steve's bar. I don't hitch a ride because I don't want to have to explain to anyone why I'm going out of town to drink when there's a bar on every corner in my neighborhood. Or maybe I'm just hoping I'll talk myself out of this crazy idea on the walk over.

I've spent the last four days trying not to think about him. And trying not to think about Jeff. Or Matt. And trying to resist the temptation to indulge in any sort of mind altering substance. Clean and sober for four days. That's gotta be a new record. But let me tell you, the last four days has not been any fun at all.

I'll be the first one to admit that I've been prancing around like a woman in my apartment, trying to fix my hair and find the perfect outfit for the seduction mission I have apparently embarked upon. Therefore, I'm walking down the street in boots, black leather pants, and a shiny silver button-up shirt that I'm pretty sure used to belong to Jeff at some point. I refuse to think about that particular fact. I get plenty of attention from people driving by, usually rowdy fun-loving teenage girls who honk their horns or lean out their car windows to shout propositions at me. They may be the wrong gender, but the attention still makes me smile and wave at them.

As I walk, I try to explain to myself just why I've developed such a fascination with this man who is a complete stranger to me. I try to become convinced that it's all about sex, but I can't sell that load of bullshit even to myself. If that's all I wanted, there's plenty of places I could find it, a lot closer to the place I'm headed to now.

Honestly, I think it's more about contrast. It's about change, and finally finding something different in my worn out world. It's about finding somebody, somebody special, who isn't Jeff.

Jeff with his long, multi-colored and always changing hair. Jeff's body, somewhere between lean and frail, moving sinfully beneath mine. Jeff's southern lilt and his contagious laughter. Jeff's green eyes boring holes inside me that I know will burn and smolder for a long time coming.

For those reasons, I long for Steve. I want to run my hands across the back of his head, feeling nothing but skin. I want hard and muscled, moving over me. I want that deep rasp and soft chuckle against my throat. I want blue eyes that will reflect a clear picture of me, so that maybe I can finally figure out who I am.

I want Steve because Steve isn't Jeff. Good enough for you? Me, too.

When I get to the bar, I show my ID to the big tattooed guy at the door, and head inside. The small building is insanely crowded. It's literally nothing but hot, moving bodies pressed wall to wall. I can't see a few feet in front of me, much less try to scope out where Steve might be. Fuck, I don't even know if he's working tonight. But he said he practically lived at this place, and on a Saturday night as crazy as this, I'm willing to bet the head of security isn't far from the action.

Finally, I'm able to push my way to the bar and collapse on a miraculously empty barstool. I can feel myself sweating, my hair starting to stick uncomfortably to the back of my neck. When the bartender comes to take my order, I mentally calculate my available funds and end up ordering whatever generic beer he's got back there. If it's cold, it works for me.

There's a live band on stage, and a throng of drunk gyrating bodies grinding on the dance floor. The lead singer is belting out a pretty decent Def Leppard cover, and the crowd is totally eating it up. I feel a brief twang of envy toward the singer and do my best to embrace it, because envy is by far the least damaging emotion I've felt in a long time.

'_Do you tell lies and say that it's forever... do you think twice, or just touch and see?' _the singer asks me from the stage. I feel the need to flip him off with both hands and scream at him to just shut the fuck up, though I know my words would be drowned out by the sound of moving and touching and throbbing baseline.

As I sit, drinking a lousy beer and listening to depressing music, I start to second guess my coming here. First off, I don't even know where he is. Maybe he wouldn't appreciate me just showing up out of the blue at his place of business. Maybe he thinks I'm a low down no good cokehead and wants nothing else to do with me. Maybe...

Before I can think up anymore reasons to just finish my beer and leave, there's an arm slung over my shoulder and a very recognizable voice in my ear.

"You lookin' for me, sweetheart?"

I swivel on my barstool until I'm face to face with my quarry. Steve drops his arm from my shoulders and observes me with laughing eyes. I can see that he's amused that I've come looking for him. I feel myself start to blush and attempt to mask it by taking another long swig from my bottle.

"Well. I was in the neighborhood," I say after I've swallowed.

A corner of his mouth twitches as he smirks, and then we simply stare at each other. I'm somewhere in between planning a quick escape route, and undressing him with my eyes. I wish I knew what he was thinking, but his expression gives away nothing except amusement and maybe a bit of surprise that I'm here.

"I'm straight," I decide to announce.

"Really." Now he looks like he's about to fall onto the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter. Thankfully, he manages to contain himself. "Coulda fooled me."

"I mean clean. Sober. Well, mostly." I toast him with my beer. "Four days."

He nods approvingly and his smile turns a little more genuine. "Well, good for you."

And then we're back to staring at each other. I have no idea how to put into words why I've come here, and I don't think I really have to. I made it pretty clear last time what I was after, and I've decided that he's just delighting in torturing me.

"You plannin' on stayin' awhile? Gonna be a cold walk home."

Another pull of liquid courage later, and I'm looking him straight in the eye. "I wasn't planning on going home. When can you leave?"

He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth a couple of times and looks around, as if taking inventory of everything going on in the bar. Finally he gives himself a satisfied nod and turns his attention back to me.

"Have another drink, darlin'. I'll wrap it up."

With that, he's disappeared back into the crowd. Grinning to myself, I beckon the bartender back over. Whereas previously I'd ordered the cheapest thing I could get, this time I order a glass of top shelf scotch. Telling the bartender to put it on Steve's tab gives me a bit of a self-satisfied thrill.

The scotch burns deliciously down my throat and I drink it quickly. It sends a warm, tingling sensation through my limbs and intensifies the nervous excited knots already forming in my stomach.

Steve reappears about ten minutes later, wearing a leather motorcycle jacket. I try not to look too eager as I slide from my barstool, letting him lead the way to the door. His bulk easily parts the groups of people, and I'm betting that the gleaming "STAFF" across his t-shirt helps a bit, too. All in all, the journey out of the bar is much easier than the journey in.

Once we hit the door, I move up beside him. I'm slightly buzzed and already half hard in my jeans, looking forward to whatever this night may hold. I spot his truck in the lot, and we head that direction.

"Yo, Stone Cold!" A voice shouts from behind us. Steve stops and spins around which causes me to do the same thing. I really wish we could just keep going and that Steve wouldn't react to every drunk asshole yelling nonsense outside of the bar, job or not. But when I turn around, I'm surprised to realize that this isn't a random drunk. It's another bar employee, and he's talking to Steve. Whatever this is, it's something personal, and all of a sudden I'm both curious as hell and wishing I was somewhere else.

The man stands just outside the entrance, and I realize it's the same guy who had carded me not half an hour ago. He's dressed identically to Steve: black boots, black jeans, black t-shirt with the big white lettering. He's taller than Steve and even more built. I guess this bar takes its bouncers seriously. Dark olive skin is decorated with an elaborate tattoo that I noticed earlier. I can see it peeking from above the collar of his shirt and beneath the hem of his sleeve.

He arches a dramatically sculpted eyebrow and lifts his chin to gesture toward me.

"Who's the blonde?"

Steve simply looks at the guy for a moment and I'm close enough to see his eyes darting back and forth, as if he's searching for an acceptable answer. He glances once at me, and then turns his attention back to his colleague.

"Mind your business, Rocky," he says, and then continues walking to his truck. I move to follow, of course, but the encounter seems to have changed the atmosphere. "Rocky" is still standing on the threshold, feet shoulder width apart, thick arms crossed over a massive chest. He doesn't look happy and I have no idea why, but it seems to have something to do with me.

Steve seems a little agitated as we get into the truck and start driving. He hasn't spoken to me, or even looked at me once since we've left the parking lot. He just clocks his hand at twelve on the steering wheel and stares at the road in front of us. I let the silence linger for a few minutes before piping up with a subject that I'm dearly hoping won't be a sore one.

"Stone Cold?"

He turns his head toward me sharply, as if I'd offended him or he'd forgotten I was there altogether. After a moment he relaxes, turning his attention back to the windshield and rolling his head a few times to apparently relieve tension in his neck.

"Just a nickname I picked up along the way."

That's the only explanation I receive, and I decide not to push the subject, or my luck. Whatever had transpired back there between him and "Rocky" was way over my head, but the effect it had on Steve is obvious. As if to punctuate the fact that the conversation is over, Steve turns the dial on the radio and the volume raises a bit.

'_It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now. Said I wouldn't call but I've lost all control, and I need you now,' _the radio croons at us, and Steve abruptly changes the station.

We drive in silence until we're finally on suburban streets. When he maneuvers the truck into a driveway, I'm relatively surprised by where we are.

We're sitting in front of a house. Not a big house, but a house with a yard and a garage and everything. It's not a gorgeous piece of work but even from out here, it makes my apartment look like a cardboard shack. It's peaceful and wonderful, and makes me a little jealous. I wonder what it's like to live in a house, alone, with nothing but quiet space. No neighbors a paper-thin wall away, knowing what you're watching or what you're listening to or how many different people you bring home in a week.

We exit the truck and he leads me through a gate in the chain link fence that surrounds the front lawn. When we're on the front porch and he's seeking out his house key, he mumbles something under his breath. The only thing I can pick up clearly is the name Lucy.

"Come again?"

"My girl's inside. She gets pretty pissed off when I've been gone all night, and she generally don't like me bringin' strangers home. She can get pretty loud, but she's usually harmless. Jus' don't talk back to 'er, and we'll be fine."

I have no words for this new revelation. Who the hell is this guy? On the outside, he's your typical macho body-building bar bouncer, who lives in a nice house and drives a nice truck. Apparently, he lives with a woman but brings home men on what I'm assuming is a regular basis. What the fuck am I getting myself into? I'm seriously about to leap off the front porch and make a run for it when Steve laughs, wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me through the front door.

He kicks the door shut with his foot and flips on the light and we're suddenly assaulted by a massive brindle pitbull. It comes bounding out from the dark hallway and launches itself at Steve, barking excitedly and trying to jump high enough to lick his face. He laughs and bends down to accommodate it, petting it affectionately until it calms down.

"Chris, Lucy. Lucy, Chris."

I can only laugh in complete and utter hysterical relief. Given the choice, I'd rather be chased out of a house by a rabid dog than a pissed off woman with a kitchen knife. I lean down to pet Lucy, who is still furiously wagging her tail. She gives my hand a few cursory sniffs before apparently granting me acceptable and turning in excited circles as she soaks up the attention.

"Fucking hell man, you had me thinking I was gonna come face to face with a scorned wife."

"Wife? Fuck that noise. Not ever again." He straightens up again and takes his jacket off, hanging it on a coat rack beside the door. "Ya want the grand tour?"

I straighten up and look around, finding myself in a well-kempt living room. The decor is sparse but clean, containing just the basic necessities: couch, reclining chair, coffee table, television. From where I'm standing, I can see the dining room and through the kitchen door. Then there's the hallway where Lucy had just bounded from.

I shrug and turn my attention back to Steve, smiling. "I think I've seen all there is to see here. Bedroom?"

He smirks and shakes his head, heading toward that dark hallway that I'm dearly hoping will contain the next chapter of my life.


	3. Chapter 3

"Pretty straight forward, ain't ya?" Steve drawls at me, wrapping an arm around my waist and leading me toward the hall. I lean into his side, smelling his sweat and soap and a trace of cologne, an intoxicating combination that makes my blood rush a little louder in my ears. Steve's hand is on my hip, fingers pressing a little harder than necessary through the thin material of Jeff's shirt.

"Well, it's the only way to really get what you want, isn't it?" I reason, as he leads me through his bedroom door. Lucy attempts to follow, but he releases me and gently closes the door before she can cross the threshold. I hear a muffled whine, and then retreating pawsteps back down the hallway.

Steve remains standing at the door, leaning casually against it, arms crossed. He allows me to explore his bedroom, which is surprisingly clean and organized. His bed is made with perfectly tucked hospital corners, and the open closet door reveals a wardrobe of dark colors that are all neatly hanging or folded in place. The closet door itself is made up of a giant mirror which is completely spotless, and of course I can't help but glance at myself and offer another silent congratulation of just how fuckable I really look tonight.

There is another mirror, this one atop a simple chest of drawers, and I move toward it, peering at a photograph that has been stuck into the edge of the wooden frame. It's a picture of Steve and the other bar bouncer, this "Rocky" that we'd seen earlier. It's a well-angled candid shot of the two men standing outside the bar, next to a pair of motorcycles. They have their arms around each others shoulders and they're laughing, caught up perhaps in a joke or fond memory. Neither of them are looking at the camera, or even seem aware that they're being photographed. Steve, in the picture, looks much younger than the man now standing across the room, but it's impossible for me to tell whether the change is chronological or simply because of how carefree he seems to be in the photo. I realize then that this picture is the only sign of personal effect in sight. There is nothing else to allude to who the occupant of this room might be; no other pictures or posters or decoration. Just simple clean efficiency, except for this picture. I suddenly feel like an intruder looking at it, and turn quickly away, plastering a thin-lipped smile on my face as I try to pull off the facade of non-curiosity.

Being in this room unexpectedly brings back a memory. Something of my parents, way back when, when I used to remember who they were. 'A place for everything, and everything in it's place,' she used to tell me. This room proved it true.

"Were you in the military?" I ask, trying to turn my mind in a different direction, away from personal pictures and memories of ones mother.

"No. I was in prison," he says. I turn to look at him, ready to laugh along with his joke, but he's not smiling. He's watching me, blue eyes focused, apparently calculating my response.

I don't know what the fuck to say to that. My first instinct is to ask 'what for?,' but you can't just ask someone that, can you? Not someone that you don't know, not someone that you're probably going to end up sleeping with in the next hour. Hell, I don't really want to know, anyway. I don't want to have to think and analyze and listen to stories. I came here to feel, and that's all I intend to do, at least for tonight.

"Oh," is the only syllable I can seem to force out of my mouth. He pushes off the wall and comes toward me slowly, almost gingerly, as if he's trying to collect a frightened dog that's about to bolt out into traffic. He thinks I'm scared of him now, I guess. To prove otherwise, I wrap my arms around his neck when he's close enough, and he puts his big hands on my hips.

"If you're referrin' to my house, I like things clean. It's habit. I have alotta of those. I learned quickly that the deputies are less likely to toss a clean cell. And I didn't like people goin' through my things."

I nod, not having any other response. For a moment, his eyes unfocus and he seems to be somewhere else entirely, remembering something that happened long ago. When he comes back to himself, he smiles a little and tightens his grip on me.

"We don't have to do this now, y'know. Not that I don't want to, 'cause.. fuck, I do. But I could take you out a few times first, or somethin'."

"Steve, after tonight, you can take me out as often as you want to, I swear. But right now, I need this. And I think you do, too."

"Promise? That you ain't jus' gonna up and disappear on me tomorrow?"

"Not if you don't want me to."

"All right," he says. And then again, 'all right,' though he seems to be speaking mostly to himself. His hands slide from my hips and up my ribs, across my chest, pause on my shoulders. He caresses my neck with a surprising tenderness and then his fingers are tracing my jawline, my cheekbones. Fingertips wind their way into my hair, massaging my scalp and sending warm shivers down my spine. He leans in and I swallow hard, my heart skipping beats and my hands beginning to tremble in wonderful anticipation. I feel his hot breath against my mouth, his mustache barely tickling my upper lip. And then finally, fucking finally, his lips cover mine.

The kiss is tentative at first, almost chaste. I close my eyes and find myself lost in the sensation, tilting my head to the side and feeling him move opposite. His hands roam from my hair and down to my lower back, pulling me tighter against him. Mouths part, tongues meet hot and slick, and my own moan his answered with his soft rumble of pleasure.

This is exactly what I've been craving. This is perfect. I let myself lose control, all thought processes shut down, and just _feel_. I can feel myself becoming ravenous against his lips, thrusting my tongue into his mouth and sucking suggestively on his tongue. My hands explore everything they can reach; feeling the bulging muscles in his back and shoulders, the slick slide of my fingers against the back of his head, his growing arousal pressing against mine until we're nearly dry-humping each other in the middle of the room.

Without breaking any contact, he walks me backward until I'm pressed against the wall which I'm absently grateful for, because my knees are quickly losing their battle to hold my weight. When he starts to unbutton my shirt, I'm glad to feel that his hands are shaking as hard as mine are. He fumbles with the first button for a moment before it finally yields and he moves on to the next. Reluctantly, I pull my mouth from his and take a few gasping breaths. I immediately miss the intimacy of the kiss, but Steve is undaunted. He bends lower and attacks my throat with his mouth, kissing and sucking and biting and turning me into a writhing, groaning bundle of nerves suspended upright only by the solid structure behind me. And he still hasn't even unfastened the second button.

"Rip it," I growl, and through the thick arousal stuck in my throat, I can barely recognize my own voice.

Steve does not need to be told twice. Strong hands grip the fabric and with absolutely zero effort, he tears the shirt open down the middle, buttons popping and flying in random directions. He wrestles the remainder of the shirt from my body and lets it fall to the floor and then we're kissing again and I feel like I'm drowning and happy to do so. He turns us, maneuvering me once more, and this time we're headed to the bed, carelessly stepping all over Jeff's shiny silver shirt as it lays in tatters at our feet.

He places his hands on my bared shoulders and pushes me backward until my knees buckle at last and I'm sitting at the foot of his bed. I look at him for the first time since this all started, and can't hold back a smile at the state I've put him in. He looks just as high as I was that first time in my apartment, and I'm pleased to know that I'm the only drug he's on.

"I'll be right back. If y'go anywhere, I may have to hunt ya down and kill ya, hear?"

"Yessir," I grin at him, wondering where the hell he thinks he's going at a time like this but not having the coherency to ask. He leaves the room and I take the opportunity to unlace and remove my boots, knowing that attempting to do so in the heat of the moment would be nearly impossible. I can hear Steve's footsteps elsewhere in the house and thankfully he's only gone for roughly a minute before he comes back through the door. We laugh together when he finds me sans boots, and he pads back into the bedroom barefooted as well.

He moves to the bed and crawls over me on his hands and knees, forcing me onto my back underneath him. Reaching over, he places a pack of condoms on the bedside table.

"Sorry. I don't keep 'em in the bedroom. Usually no point in it."

"There is now," I smile up at him until my mouth once again becomes melded against his.

There is more of an urgency now and things begin to move faster. Two pairs of hands are fumbling against clothing, seemingly complicated belt buckles and stubborn zippers. Steve helps me pull his shirt over his head and my hands are on his bare back, our chests pressed against one another, the feel of skin against skin electrifying my senses. He breaks the kiss and trails his mouth down my jawline. I tilt my head back, eyes closed, savoring the gentle scratch of his facial hair against my throat.

Steve continues a steady downward trek, his lips and tongue lavishing my chest while I openly writhe beneath him. His hands are on my legs, squeezing through the tight leather until his fingers find my waistband. He sits up, kneeling on the bed as he slowly peels the fabric away from my body, and I arch my hips to allow him to do so. Finally, I'm lying naked before him, my cock so hard that it's laying nearly flat against my stomach, throbbing in time to my frantic heartbeat. I look up at Steve, and feel my body thrill in reaction to the look he's got in his eyes. He's watching me like I'm some sort of treat he can't wait to indulge in, licking his lips as he drinks me in.

His hands are on my legs again, ghosting over my inner thighs, this time without the barrier of the leather. He nudges my legs apart and I bend my knees to allow him better access, bringing my legs upward and putting my feet flat on the bed. I close my eyes again, gasping at the feel of his fingertips as they slide inward, purposefully skirting around my balls without touching, and then coming to rest on my hips.

I feel Steve shift his position on the bed, and when his tongue slides up the length of my erection, I nearly jump right out of my skin. My body jerks like I've just been hit by a car, my hips involuntarily arching toward him. I'm slightly embarrassed by the sound I make, this ragged gasping noise, that sounds so obviously desperate. He's anticipated all of this, though, and his hands on my hips press me harder against the mattress, keeping me still so that he can continue.

And continue he does. I can't even remember the last time I had a blowjob, and I'm pretty certain that I've never had one as good as this. Steve takes his time, never rushing, his hot mouth wrapped around my cock, tongue swirling in endless tantalizing circles. He moves slowly, his eyes fixed on my face, and the look he's giving me while he sucks me off is almost enough to drive me insane. Every time his tongue brushes a particularly sensitive spot, I gasp a little louder and he immediately repeats the act, paying close attention to the reactions my body offers him. I have one hand on the back of his head and the other curled around the headboard, and eventually he lets his hands wander away from my hips and allows me to slowly thrust into his mouth.

One of his hands leaves my skin for a moment, but I don't think anything of it. Until, that is, that hand returns slicked with lube and gently probing between my cheeks. Even with a mouthful of cock, giving me the most fantastic blowjob I've ever had in my life, this guy can still uncap a tube of lube one-handed. I'm officially impressed. I don't have too much time to marvel about it, though, as two big fingers slide inside me and begin to move, gently stretching. His free hand slides down to wrap around the base of my cock, and soon enough his mouth and both hands are working in a perfect tandem that's about to send me reeling.

"Oh, fuck. Fuck, I'm gonna come. I'm gonna come if you don't stop."

He pulls his mouth away long enough to speak while smirking up at me. "Ya say that like it's a bad thing. I thought that was the idea."

"Yeah, but –" Before I can think up any more words to tell him I'd rather come while getting fucked, his mouth is sliding down my length again and his fingers are curling inside me just so, brushing my prostate and setting fireworks off behind my eyelids. I have a brief moment to be amazed by his perception and how quickly he learns what's going to drive me crazy, before my body is twisting and arching up off the bed. I open my mouth but my voice catches, and I can't make a single sound as the orgasm hits me all at once and I'm coming down his throat.

He swallows around my cock, the sensation making my hips jerk even harder before I finally fall back onto the bed, sweaty and panting. He kisses my stomach as he pulls away, his fingers slowly leaving my body, making my muscles twitch and spasm from the desire to have the contact back.

I feel him stand from the bed, but I'm currently too tired to open my eyes and see what he's doing. When he comes back, he lies down beside me, and my hand blindly reaches for him. I touch nothing but slick, hard muscle. He was taking off the rest of his clothes.

When I open my eyes, I find Steve reclined on the bed, slowly stroking his cock while he watches me. He's already got the condom on, and his strokes are lubing it up; he's just waiting for me to recover enough for round two. The sight of him watching me while he jerks off is almost too much to handle, and I can feel myself start to get hard again despite the amazing orgasm I've just experienced.

"D'ya know how gorgeous you look when you're coming?" he asks conversationally, his tone as casual as if we were two buddies having a chat, and he wasn't currently masturbating after having just swallowed my load.

"Uh, no. Can't say that I do," I chuckle, biting down into my lower lip a little as I watch his hand move.

"Well, I want ya to. C'mere." With that, he's sitting up and moving to sit on the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor. He reaches for me, pulling me into his lap so that I'm facing away from him, his hard on pressing against my lower back. In this position, we're sitting directly in front of his mirrored closet doors. I can see the entire bed perfectly, Steve's eyes catching mine in our reflection. This time, I watch as his hands move over my body, skimming my chest and stomach, moving lower to my thighs, occasionally giving a few slow strokes to my growing arousal. I can see his hands, his face, as well as my own. I can watch my body react to him, nearly quivering in anticipation. It's sexy as all hell, I decide immediately.

"Ya ready?" he whispers against the shell of my ear, his hot breath making me shiver.

"Fuck yes," is all I can coherently reply.

He grabs my hips and lifts me while I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around his cock to steady it. I'm already lubed and relaxed from the previous climax, and when he lowers me onto his hard length, he slides in easily with no resistance. I pull my hand back and brace my weight against his thighs while he lifts my hips a few times, sliding in and out of me, before pulling me down completely and sinking himself balls deep.

We imitate each others groan of satisfaction at the feeling, and then neither of us moves for a minute. I lean my head backward against his shoulder, just relishing the feeling of that thickness stretching me, and listening to my heart pound. He reaches up, brushing my hair away from my face, before whispering in my ear once more.

"Watch, Chris."

I force my head back up, and the effort is nearly more than I can manage. But I do as he instructs me, gazing at the mirror and taking in the sight as he starts to move. He places his hands back on my hips again, helping me keep time with the rhythm of his body as he thrusts upward. Soon enough, I'm completely mesmerized by the sight of me bouncing on his cock, and I don't think anything else in the world could drag my attention away from this mirror.

He leans his chin on my shoulder, breathing hard against the side of my throat and moaning lowly into my ear. His thrusts vary; hard and fast for a moment, making me keen and grab at his thighs. Then he'll stop, leaving himself buried completely. And then he'll move again, slower than my lust-addled brain can comprehend, deep strokes that pull him out of me almost completely, before sliding back in at an agonizing pace that leaves me whimpering wantonly.

My re-newed erection is complete by now, bobbing hard and heavy between my legs, begging for attention. My legs are quivering from the strain of supporting my weight, my thighs starting to ache as I fuck myself on his cock, his hands still guiding my movements. I continue to watch in the mirror, beads of sweat trailing down Steve's face and arms, my own perspiration dampening my hair as it sticks to my shoulders and Steve's cheek.

He stops moving again, pulling me hard against him, my ass seated perfectly against his hips. Then he grinds upward, not thrusting, but moving inside me until he brushes that spot that makes me gasp and cry out, my cock visibly twitching and leaking fluid all over itself. I want to hold out longer, not wanting this to end so damn soon, but I can't help but wrap my hand around myself, my precum providing a wonderfully slick slide of skin against skin as I start to stroke. Steve's eyes catch mine in the mirror again and he smiles knowingly at me, grinding upward again, watching me tense and shudder.

The feeling is so overwhelming that my eyes start to slide shut again, wanting to concentrate on nothing except the approaching orgasm that is sure to be one of the best of my life. Steve spares one hand from my hip, sliding it up into my hair and tugging sharply, making sure my attention stays where he wants it. My eyes go slightly wide in the mirror and I instinctively moan at the slight amount of pain his hand provides. Apparently gauging my reaction, he tangles his fingers in and pulls harder, and then chuckles breathlessly against my ear when he sees that I like it.

Steve is in absolutely no rush to get this over with. He continues to be almost still, experimentally grinding against me, buried as deep as he could possibly get. Every time the head of his cock brushes my prostate, I can feel that familiar spring inside me coil tighter and tighter, getting ready to snap at any moment. My hand moves a little faster, but I make myself stop every time he stops, building the anticipation which is quickly becoming intolerable. I can barely breathe, and I'm gasping frantically. My entire body seems to be on fire, every nerve ending I have tingling in desperation for release.

Letting loose his grasp on my hip, Steve moves to instead wrap his entire arm around my midsection. He pulls his other hand from my hair, and I watch as he covers my hand with his own, guiding my movements as I jerk myself off. He forces me to increase the pace, something I am not upset about at all, and uses his arm to hold me steady as he finally starts thrusting upward again.

After that, it takes about ten seconds for me to totally lose it. Miraculously, I am able to keep my eyes open and trained on the mirror long enough to watch the beginning of the orgasm, seeing the first two shots of sticky fluid escape to coat both of our hands. After that, there's nothing I can do besides throw my head back against his shoulder and ride it out. Whereas last time I couldn't make any sound, this time I don't think I could stop the hoarse screaming if my life depended on it. My entire body goes rigid, wave after wave of unbelievable pleasure coursing through me. My muscles contract hard, making Steve's cock feel even bigger inside me, which does nothing except make the orgasm even stronger. He never stops fucking me throughout, and it seems like an eternity before the feeling starts to fade and I'm able to open my eyes again. When I do, I look at him in the mirror, and my stomach knots in excitement all over again when I see the look of rapt desire on his face.

"Oh yeah, that's what I wanted. That was perfect. I know you're tired, baby. I'm almost there," he pants, still watching my eyes as his body becomes even more brutal against mine, his hips slamming against my backside. Then he closes his eyes and latches his mouth against my skin between my neck and my shoulder, sucking almost hard enough to be painful. Both his arms wrap tightly around me and he gives a final thrust before his body stills, his loud groans vibrating against my flesh. I can't hold back a moan of my own as his cock jumps inside me, making me regret the condom a little; I wish it were me he was filling. He thrusts twice more, his legs shaking with the effort, before he pulls his mouth from my neck with a loud sound of breaking suction. Then he lets go of me completely and collapses backward onto the bed with an exhausted groan, almost taking me with him, since I no longer have his solid body keeping me upright. But I manage to keep my bearings, very slowly lifting myself off of him and rolling to his side.

His chest heaves with every deep breath he takes, and he's thrown his arm across his eyes so that I can barely see his face. I have to smile a little at the look of him; flushed, sweating, panting, and fully sated. I place a tender hand on his leg so as not to startle him when I move to peel the condom off. He makes a low "mmm" at the touch, and I tie the end of it and toss it in the trashcan by the bed.

"Can ya walk?" he asks, still not moving to look at me.

"I think so."

"D'ya know where the bathroom is?"

"I'm sure I can find it."

"Go get a towel, wouldya?"

I laugh a little and stand on shaky legs, finding the bathroom with no trouble. When I've returned with the towel, Steve looks slightly more composed; he's at least laying the correct way in the bed, leaning up slightly against the headboard. I wipe myself clean and then toss the towel to him, moving to join him back on the bed. We don't speak as he cleans himself up, and I can sense the awkwardness coming on. I hate this part.

"So, uh. That was fucking fantastic," I announce, and he laughs.

"Yeah. It was. Toldya ya look amazing when you come."

I laugh and glance at him, but his eyes are still averted. He folds the soiled towel neatly, and sets it on his nightstand. "Yeah, guess you were right."

He just nods once, and the air is quickly becoming thick.

"Do you, uh, want me to go now?"

At that, his eyes dart quickly to me and then away just as fast. "If ya want to."

"Maybe I don't."

He looks back to me slowly, almost cautiously, and this time we keep the eye contact. "Then stay."

"For how long?"

"As long as ya want."

"All night?"

"Sounds good."

"Okay." I smile a little and he smiles back, and then we're rearraging ourselves to be able to slide under the sheets and comforter on the bed. We lay there for a moment, not touching, uncomfortable. I roll over onto my side, facing away from him, deciding that I'd let him decide how this was going to be. It's his house, after all; his rules about this sort of thing. I have no idea.

He lets me lie there for a minute or two before shifting onto his side as well. His hand slowly trails down my back, and I shift my weight to lean into the touch. Apparently encouraged, Steve scoots closer, putting his chest against my back and wrapping his arm around my waist. I sigh contentedly, glad for the contact, and almost immediately drift into a dead sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I'm awakened by a sound coming from Steve's side of the bed. It's an insistent buzzing noise, vibrating against his bedside table. He jerks awake and then moves away from me, and I open my eyes long enough to see him grab his lighted cellphone from the nightstand, answering it quietly as he moves toward the door. I'm left alone in the bed and I take the opportunity to stretch out, feeling my body ache pleasantly. It's a little colder without him there, but I don't stay awake long enough to really mind.

When I awaken next, it's due to the sunlight streaming through the opening in the middle of the curtains. The warm body is back in bed, pressed against my back again, but on top of the covers this time. I smile and stretch, feeling completely at ease and quite satisfied with myself that I had completed my objective. After last night, I'm having a little trouble thinking about Steve as an objective; but that's how it'd started out, at least.

The warmth behind me shifts, and I'm startled completely awake by a long, wet tongue on my ear. I flip over quickly and surprise myself with the hysterical laughter that overtakes me when I find Lucy lying there, thumping her tail against the bed and looking at me almost guiltily.

"You scared me," I tell her as I move the covers back and sit up on the edge of the bed, stretching my arms above my head. I look around; there is no sign of Steve, and the rest of the house is perfectly quiet.

"Where'd he go, huh?" I ask Lucy, and she answers by wagging her tail some more. I stand up and glance at the items on the floor: Jeff's ruined shirt and my leather pants. There is no way I have the energy to try to squeeze back into those right now, and so I make my way to Steve's closet, instead. I grab a pair of black boxers and slide into them; they're a little big, but perfectly comfortable.

Making my way out of the bedroom, my curiosity is growing. Where the hell is Steve? As I walk into the kitchen, I look at the clock: it's almost noon. I'd slept like the dead. A lovely smell still lingers in the kitchen; apparently, Steve had been cooking something not too long ago.

After a cursory exploration of the kitchen, I notice the piece of white notebook paper laying on the counter. It's being weighted by a set of car keys lying atop it. I slide the keys aside, and pick up the scrap of paper. It reads:

"Chris,

Sorry to leave you alone. I had an errand to run. There's clean towels for a shower, help yourself. Made breakfast, it's in the oven for you. Left the keys to my truck in case you need to go anywhere. I will be back ASAP… please don't go home.

S."

Huh. I wonder how he's "running an errand" without his truck. Did he go somewhere with someone else? I vaguely remember him taking a phone call last night… or had that been a dream? I can't recall.

Anyway, I guess it doesn't matter now. He's left me here, to my own devices. I eagerly make my way to the oven and crack the door open, looking forward to whatever is waiting inside.


	4. Chapter 4

All right, maybe I am crazy. I guess most people who've ever met me would testify to that. Leaving the keys to my truck and my house to a strange man I bedded for one night would generally be a bad idea. But for some strange reason I can't put my finger on, I trust him. I don't think he'll turn out to be a thief or a carjacker. But I've been wrong before. And if I turn out to be wrong this time, I know where the kid lives.

I don't know why I left this morning. I got no real reason to go to work. It's early enough for there to not be many customers; just the usual bar rats that need a drink or eight to start the day off right. And there are really no pressing errands that couldn't have waited until later. But when I woke up next to him, I just had to get out of there. There's something about this guy that shakes me up. I needed some fresh air.

There's nowhere better to get fresh air than on a Harley, let me tell you that. The wind in my face and the powerful rumble of the beast below me makes things a little clearer.

I ride to the bar and park the bike in the no parking zone in front of the door. I kill the engine and set the kickstand down, but leave the key in the ignition. Maybe I don't think anybody will have the balls to walk up and steal my bike. Maybe I'm looking for a legitimate excuse to hunt somebody down and teach 'em that you don't fuck with another man's belongings.

I walk through the barroom, nodding to the bartender on duty and habitually taking stock of all the customers. There's nothing out of the ordinary.

There's an unmarked door just to the left of the bar and I walk right through it, mentally scolding myself that I'd forgotten to lock it last night. I'd left in far too much of a hurry. A narrow staircase later and I'm on the second story of the bar, where my office is. I don't know if 'bouncers' usually have offices in the bars they work at, but lately I've spent more time in my office than I have at my own house. You see, I don't own this bar, not technically. My name isn't on any of the paperwork and I don't sign anybody's paychecks. But the guy who owns it doesn't give a shit about it. He owns businesses all over the country, and usually lives in New York or LA or something; a real blueblooded millionaire, this guy is. I happen to know for a fact that the only reason he bought this shithole is to give his worthless kid a job as far away from daddy as possible. How did I end up workin' here? Well, that's a story for another time, but let's just say I owed somebody a favor. But me running security around here quickly turned into running the whole joint. Shane split almost as fast as he appeared. He doesn't want or need a job; I'm sure he's still living out of daddy's trust fund, and he cares about this place just as much as his father does. Sure, he shows up every once in a while when he gets bored; drinks himself silly for free, and then tries to throw his weight around, but it never lasts long. If somebody here has a problem, they don't call Shane, or Vince. They call me. Technicalities aside, this place is mine. And someday, I'm gonna make that legal. Every spare cent goes into my savings account, and as soon as I've got close to a half-decent amount, I'm gonna make ol' Vinnie Mac an offer on this place. I'm sure he'll be glad to get it out of his hair.

When I get to the top of the staircase and the end of the hall, I enter my office and once again berate myself for leaving the door unlocked.

Rocky's sitting in my chair with his big cowboy boots up on my desk, crossed at the ankles. He looks perfectly comfortable, lounging backward with his hands folded on his stomach. He's not in uniform, so I know he hasn't been here all night. He's wearing plain blue jeans and a white wifebeater, his eyes obscured by his half-lensed sunglasses. He doesn't so much as turn his head when I walk through the door, and I wonder if he's fallen asleep. What the fuck is he doing here, anyway? How could he have known I'd be here so early?

I close the door behind myself a little louder than necessary, but he doesn't flinch. He just tilts his chin downward and regards me from over the top of his sunglasses, picking up right where he left off last night.

"Who's the blonde?"

"Why the hell are you here?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

I reach into the pocket of my jeans and pull my phone out, waving it in his general direction, wanting to get the point across that yes, I do have a phone, and talking to people is its only purpose. "I believe ya still know the number. How the hell didya know I'd be here so early, anyway?"

"'Cause you have problems sleeping next to people. Actually, you lasted longer than I thought you would. I been here nearly two hours, now. He musta really worn you out. Who is he, Steve? That wasn't a random pickup. He came here last night for you."

Sonofabitch. I really don't want to be having this conversation right now, and especially not with him. I start pacing in front of the desk, watching the window, the carpet, my feet, the calendar on the wall. Anything but him and that goddamn all-knowing look he's got in his eyes.

"His name's Chris."

"Right. Jericho. I know that, I carded him. But where the fuck did he come from? What're you thinkin', Steve? You're gonna let yourself get fucked over by this wannabe rockstar? For Christsake, what are you _doing_?"

"Goddamnit, Rock, would you just shut the fuck up and let me live my own life? Don't pretend ya fuckin' know, or care, who I am and what I'm doin'."

"I know you better than anyone on this planet, Steve. What'd you make him for breakfast?"

I stop and look at him, and our eyes lock. I want to argue. I want to scream at him and vault over that desk and pummel him until he's black and blue and bloody underneath me. I want to make him understand that he has no fucking idea in the world who I am. But I can't. I can't, because he's right, and there's nothing I can do now to change that.

"Why him?"

"He has a comforting aura," I smirk at him, knowing it pisses him off when I talk like that. He scoffs and throws his hands up in disgust, dropping his feet off my desk and back down to the floor.

"It's not gonna work, Steve. It's not ever gonna be like it used to be, not with him."

"You... you are fucking unbelievable. You left me, remember?"

"That's not the point. The point is -"

"_You_ left _me_."

"- that I'm right here in fuckin' front of ya, and I already know everything there is to know about you. I've -"

"You. Left. Me."

" - been here the whole fuckin' time and you just don't care anymore -"

"YOU LEFT ME!"

My words seem to echo off the walls and in our ears, and he finally shuts up. I sigh and run my hands back over my head, watching the floor. I know I should have more control than this. I can usually get my point across just fine without ever having to raise my voice. I've been through countless hours of anger management courses to make sure of that. I know how to keep my temper, but... it's him. And he's always been able to get to me.

I hear him stand and raise my eyes to watch him walk toward me. My back comes in contact with the wall and I realize I'd been stepping backward, away from him, as he moved toward me. This fact fills me with a self loathing that I seem to only feel when he's around. I'm not scared of him. But he intimidates me, in a way I don't think I'd ever be able to explain. It isn't physical, but he still seems to be able to tower over me in sheer presence.

He puts his hand on the wall next to my head and leans in toward me, still watching me from over the top of his shades. I steel myself for whatever is going to come next, swearing that I'm not going to lose my temper again. There will be no more arguing, no more raised voices. I prepare myself for his logic, for his "concern," for his criticism and desire to win this years-long fight we've been having. I have a calm and well-thought out reply for every word that is about to come out of his mouth. I've already lived every scenario of this showdown, and I'm ready for anything.

Anything except for what he gives me.

I don't know how to respond to genuine emotion, laid out open and raw in front of me.

"I tried to come back," he whispers.

I have to clear my throat a couple of times before I can even fathom a reply, and even then, the words are thick and try to stick inside my throat. I swallow and force them harder. My voice is weak and my self hatred meter rises another notch. "It was too late."

"It wasn't too late. You were just too scared. That's why you hired me here, Steve. I know -"

"I hired ya here because you're a solid, tough sonofabitch. I hired ya because I -"

" - why I'm here. I know my job is your excuse. I know that I'm untouchable now-"

" - care about this place and I knew you'd help me keep it up."

" - because of your rule. You don't fuck your employees."

In that moment, I hate him. I hate him for what he knows and what he forces me to know, too. I hate him, no matter how much I may have loved him before. I wish I could hold onto that hate, but I know it's a fleeting thing that will die off just as quickly as it appeared. Hating him would be too damn easy. But even so, I can't let him have the last word. I never could.

"All right. Maybe you're right. Maybe I brought ya in here and made your job my excuse. But then why are y'here? Why'd ya choose to accept the job? You're here because you're desperate. Because ya left me, realized ya'd fucked up, and now you'll do anything to stay close to me. When ya figured out that I wasn't gonna let ya walk right back in, ya had to find some other way to be here... with me."

When he lowers his head, I know I've hit a nerve. Problem is, I don't know whether to celebrate or beg forgiveness. I always want to win with him, yet when I do, I feel guilty. I settle for just watching him, trying to breathe and keep my heart from jackhammering right out of my chest.

"So is this it, then?" he asks, still not looking up. "You gonna replace me that easy? You think that this guy is gonna give you half of what I did? You gonna let him in on everything that's you? All those secrets you've got up there? Gonna tell him about this bar and all the money? Gonna tell him about Debra? How about lockdown in Huntsville, you gonna walk him through that? And what about Joey, huh? You gonna tell him about Joey?"

His words snap me clean out of my silence, and maybe that's what he intended. After all, he'd just told me he knows me better than anyone else. So how could he not know my reaction to that? I piston my hands into his chest and push him backward, away from me. He takes a couple of steps and then steadies himself again, reaching up to rip his sunglasses off his face and toss them aside. He squares his shoulders and then waits for whatever I'm going to do next, dark eyes gleaming in anticipation and maybe a little apprehension.

I swear, I almost hit him. My fist is closed and cocked and I can clearly see it making contact with his jaw. I wish I had the balls to actually do it, but I know I don't. Not yet. Not unless he keeps pushing me.

I settle for jabbing my index finger into his chest, closing the distance I'd just put between us and putting my face into his close enough to kiss him. He stands his ground and keeps eye contact, defiant.

"Ya better take that name outta your mouth right this fuckin' second before ya go too far to turn back, _Dwayne_."

We stare each other down for almost a full minute. I'm sweating and my heart is pounding and I'm hoping to hell that he doesn't make me hit him because I don't know what kind of war that would start.

Finally, he nods and steps back. Leaning down, he retrieves his sunglasses from the floor and puts them back on. Always hiding behind those damn things, yet he accuses me of keeping secrets.

"That was too far. I apologize," he says, voice low. He's turning around toward my desk as he speaks, looking for something he didn't lose, trying to save a little face as he hands me my victory.

"I need you to have my back, Rocky. Jus' like always. I know maybe it ain't how ya want to be, but... you're my best friend."

He turns back toward me then, and moves back in. His demeanor has changed and I don't feel like I need to get ready to defend myself when he puts his hand on my shoulder. It's a familiar touch.

"Fine. I'm here. I always have been, and even when I want to put you through a goddamned wall... you know I always will be. But I'll tell you this, Steve. You'd better keep this guy at arm's length, 'cause if you let him hurt you... he's a fuckin' dead man. The first time you show up on my doorstep with that look on your face, I will find him… and I will skin. Him. Alive. You got me?"

"Yeah. I gotcha. Maybe I'll go home an' tell him that. If he knows his life is on the line, he might put up with me for a while longer." I manage a smile and Rocky matches it, albeit reluctantly. I don't allow my knees to go weak at the sight of those dimples and his coy, downturned eyes. No, not weak at all.

"Go home, darlin'. Get some rest and quit stressin' over all this shit. I got it handled, y'know? I just.. might need you to keep a closer eye on things 'round here for a while. I pretty much been livin' here. Turned this place into my whole life. But I think, maybe... I got somethin' else, now. So, I might not be around quite as much. Jus'... don't let it all go to hell, alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I gotcha Steve. I'll be here."

I nod my thanks and we look at each other for a little while longer before I turn to leave. Right before the door closes behind me, he recaptures my attention with a quiet "hey." I poke my head back in.

"I know this isn't what you wanna hear, and I know I.. never said it when I should've. But I love you. I always did. Just... remember that, okay?"

"Nothin' short of a steel chair to the head could make me forget."


	5. Chapter 5

When I turn the corner onto my block, I can see my truck sitting in the driveway. I'm relieved that it's there, and can only hope that Chris is still there with it. I pull the bike up past the truck, directly through the garage door that I'd left open. I haven't been gone that long, and I wonder if Chris is even awake. If he wasn't, I'm sure he is now; the echo of a V-twin engine in this small garage would be enough to wake the dead.

As soon as I kill the engine, Lucy's excited barking can be heard from the house. I set the kickstand down and then slowly climb off the bike, the leather of my jacket creaking slightly while I stretch my arms above my head and twist side to side to loosen up my back a little. I break up fights on a daily basis, and sometimes even partake in them even though I know I shouldn't; yet it only takes one night with this kid to prove how mortal I really am.

I'm a little apprehensive walking toward the door, which leads from the garage straight into the kitchen. Is he still here? Is he gonna be pissed off that I left? And what's worse… what if he's gone? I spend about five seconds contemplating these things until I decide fuck it; it's my house, and I'm not gonna stand outside starin' at the door like a scared little girl.

I walk through into the kitchen, and am whole-heartedly greeted by Lucy, just like every other day. Going to one knee, I stroke her head and scratch behind her ears, but I'm looking elsewhere. Right away, I spot Chris sitting at my kitchen table, and my heart immediately starts beating a little faster.

He's wearing nothing except a pair of my boxers. His hair hasn't been combed, and it looks like he's just stumbled out of bed. It's a sight that I quickly come to love, and I hope that this won't be the last time I see it. He's scrawling something in a notebook that's open on the table, though he stops writing as I walk in, looking up at me with a smile.

"You have a motorcycle," he declares proudly, as if he had just solved some world wonder.

"Yeah," I chuckle, looking at him curiously, but he just grins to himself and goes back to writing whatever he's writing. I remove my jacket and toss it across the other chair, and then peer through the glass window of the oven.

"You didn't eat your breakfast."

"Nope."

Moving closer to him, I put my hands on his bare shoulders and lean down, nuzzling into his hair. His skin is still sleep-warm to the touch and he still smells like sex. That, mixed with his own distinct scent, is almost overwhelming. I have to move away before I pick him up and throw him down across the kitchen table.

"Didn't take a shower, either."

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Well, Steve," he begins matter-of-factly, setting his pen down on the table and looking up at me with a semi-serious expression. "I do intend to eat my breakfast. And, I do intend to take a shower. But, I intend on doing both of those things with you."

Well, fuck. I couldn't argue with that if I wanted to. "Sounds good to me."

"Shower first. Why don't you go warm it up, and I'll join you as soon as I'm done here."

"What're ya doin', anyway?" I ask, moving in again, this time to try to peer over his shoulder. He promptly places his hand over the notebook paper, swiveling away from me.

"I left my journal at home. I have to write some things down before I forget them."

"You're makin' a diary outta my notebook?"

"It's not a diary; it's a journal."

"Can I read it?"

"No!"

"Aw, that's all right. I bet I already know how it starts. 'Dear Penthouse'…"

"Fuck you!" he laughs, tearing out a blank piece of paper and wadding it up, and then chucking it in my general direction. I dodge into the hallway before he can make a proper target out of me, grinning to myself as I head to the bathroom. I spare a moment to think of how strange this all is. I haven't even known this guy a week, only spent one night with him, and already the banter comes easy and comfortable.

I turn the water on in the shower and disrobe, folding my clothes and stacking them on the bathroom counter. I've already had a shower, of course, but fucked if I'm gonna let Chris' little invitation go to waste. Besides, the hot water does feel good; I'm still a little tensed up after the confrontation with my best friend, not to mention all the physical activity of last night.

About five minutes later I hear Chris pad into the bathroom, and he climbs into the shower with me after another moment. The shower's not huge, but big enough for both of us to fit comfortably. He smiles at me as we switch positions and he leans into the spray of the water, soaking his hair.

It's at that precise moment that something occurs to me, and before I know it, I'm laughing so hard I have to put a hand on the shower wall to steady myself. Chris is scowling and looking at me like I've sprouted a second head.

"What? What the fuck is so funny?"

"It's you… with all that fuckin' gorgeous hair o'yours… and I don't have any shampoo!"

He looks momentarily disappointed, and then rolls his eyes, and then he's laughing right along with me. "Well, I guess I'll have to use soap, then. I've gotta wash it. I think there's come in it."

His words just increase my amusement until I'm nearly doubled over and he just shakes his head and rolls his eyes again, smiling. He leaves me to my laughing fit, grabbing the bar of soap from its niche, and starting to lather up his hair. When I've recovered enough, I stand upright again and move in front of him, gently taking the soap from his hands. He looks at me in surprise as I lather my hands up, set the soap aside, and then work my fingers into that thick hair. His surprise quickly melts away while I massage his scalp, and he closes his eyes and nearly falls into me. I let him lean his weight against me, delighting in feeling him relax as I run my fingers downward, squeezing the suds out at the bottom.

I trail my hands, still lathered with soap, across his shoulders and back, leaning down to press a kiss to the dark bruise I'd left on his neck the night before. He squirms and shudders against me, and I can sense his extreme relaxation slowly morphing into something a little more potent. I pause to soap up my hands again, moving back far enough so that I can get in between us, sliding my hands across his chest and stomach, and then down his arms. He blinks down at me when I hit my knees in front of him, washing down his legs. Putting a hand to the shower wall to keep his balance, he first lifts one foot and then the other, letting me wash him thoroughly. I very purposefully keep from touching his growing hard-on which is right at face-level, and the memory of how good he tasted last night makes it hard for me to retain any willpower at all.

I trail my hands from his feet up the backs of his legs, and watch his face while I tease the tips of my fingers into his crack. He gasps, wriggling slightly against my hand, and then frowns and bites down on his lip.

"I'm a little sore," he says, quiet words that are almost muffled completely by the falling water.

Hearing that, I quickly get back to my feet, not wanting to do anything that's going to hurt him. He smiles at me and wraps his arms around my neck, pulling me in for a kiss. He delivers it hot, wet, and deep right away, and I know I've got him more than a little turned on.

I lean him backward into the spray of water, letting it sluice down his body, washing away the soap from his hair and skin. His eyes are closed and his lips are parted and, if you'll allow me to wax poetic for a moment, he looks absolutely fuckin' beautiful.

I watch him for a little while as he enjoys the feel of the hot water, before deciding I'd give him something else to enjoy. Placing one hand on the back of his neck, I let the other slide down his body, wrapping my fingers around his erection. He gasps at the unexpected feeling, his eyelids fluttering as I start to stroke. I use the hand at the back of his neck to pull him closer toward me, and then lean down, licking the water from his neck and shoulder while he leans his head back and moans.

My hand is still slick with residual soap and it slides easily over his skin. I use what I'd learned last night, pressing fingertips against his sensitive spots and delighting in the sounds he's making. He's so responsive, even during a simple handjob, that it nearly drives me crazy. He's shuddering against me and arching his hips toward my hand, his breath hitching in his throat. I'd like to linger in this moment for a while, tease and experiment, but I can feel the temperature of the water slowly cooling, and I know this little interlude is going to have to end, much sooner than I'd like.

I start pumping him faster, completely enveloping the head of his cock in my hand with every stroke, and I feel his arms tighten around me. His breath comes faster and he's starting to tremble now, and I know that I've got him right there.

"Oh, god, Steve," he breathes, and my name on his lips makes me harder than I think I've ever been. His hands find my face and he pulls my mouth away from his neck so that he can kiss me again. His lips crash into mine and he kisses me desperately while he comes, crying out, the sounds of his orgasm muffled against my mouth. I stroke him through his climax, not being able to hold back a groan of my own at the feeling of him coming all over my hand.

Finally, he breaks the kiss, needing air. We cling to each other and he looks at me with lazy, half-lidded eyes and gives me the most amazing smile I think I've ever seen.

We rinse off once more before the water goes completely cold, and then I turn off the taps. Pulling the shower curtain back, I reach for a towel, but apparently Chris has other ideas. He steps out of the shower, still soaking wet, and then grabs my hand, pulling me along with him. The move takes me by surprise, enough so that I nearly slip and fall against him. Surprisingly, he counters my weight easily, turning me around so that I'm leaning against the edge of the sink counter. And then he's on his knees in front of me and my cock is in his mouth before I even have time to form a thought.

"Oh, fuck!" I hear myself say, although it doesn't really sound much like me at all. I'm grateful that he had the foresight to lean me against the counter before his surprise attack, because my legs are already shaking and threatening to give out. My hands, seemingly of their own accord, find their way into his wet hair and he moans as I tug on it, sending a vibration through me that goes straight up my spine.

I know that this isn't going to last long. I was already on the verge of coming while I was jerking him off, just from hearing him say my name the way he did. But I want to hold out as long as possible, not wanting to end the feeling of his hot mouth sliding up and down my shaft. His hands are working me, too; stroking at the base of my cock while he swirls his tongue around the head, fingers dipping lower to lift and massage my balls. Really, though, it's the look he gives me that pushes me over. His eyes roam upward, finding mine, and he watches me with pure lust on his face, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks harder.

I thrust into his mouth a few times, grabbing harder at his hair, and he takes the hint, deep-throating me like a pro. I groan raggedly and he pulls back just before I'm about to come, replacing his mouth with his hand, fingers stroking quickly over my head. I realize what he's doing and force my eyes to stay open… there's no way I could allow myself to miss this visual.

He's still watching me as I come; the first shot landing in his open mouth and coating his lips. His tongue darts out, licking off what it can reach, and the sight makes me groan. His hand continues milking me for all I'm worth and I shoot twice more, leaving sticky trails all over his face, the last bit dribbling down over his stroking hand.

I pry my fingers out of his hair and brace my hands on the counter behind me, panting for lost breath as I look down at him. Naked, dripping wet and on his knees in front of me, covered in come. It's almost enough to make me hard again right then. Especially when he grins and licks his lips again, making a low sound in his throat that almost sounds like a purr.

An idea occurs to me and I grin back down at him, my hands fumbling on the counter behind me for the clothes I'd left there. Finding my jeans, I withdraw my phone from the pocket, and flip it open. He laughs when he realizes what I'm doing, and my fingers are shaking as I point the phone toward him and snap what has got to be the most incredible picture I'll ever take in my life.

"You're a pervert," accuses the man who is practically dripping with my come, as he stands up and grabs a towel off the rack, wiping his face and hands clean. I set my phone aside and then stand there and watch him as he discards the towel, and then uses a clean one to wring the water from his hair and dry the rest of himself.

"What?" he says when he catches me watching him, smiling a little as he retrieves my boxers and slides back into them.

"Ya keep this up, and I'm gonna start holdin' ya personally responsible for doin' my laundry. You're gettin' all my towels dirty."

He smirks and hands me the damp towel he'd just used. I begin to dry off what's left of the water on my skin, although most of it is already dry, or all over the bathroom floor.

"I think that'd be a small price to pay for the last twelve hours," he says to me over his shoulder as he walks past me and out of the bathroom.

I warm up the breakfast I'd made for him (French toast and bacon, to satisfy your fucking curiosity, Rocky), and sit with him while he eats, insisting that I'd already had breakfast. It's a lie, but my stomach is still so knotted up with excitement and nervousness over this whole thing that I'm not the least bit hungry. I think to myself, again, that I'm acting like a stupid schoolgirl with a crush, but there's not much I can do about that now.

We don't talk much while he eats. He seems to be in complete bliss over the food, and I wonder to myself how long it's been since he'd had an actual home-cooked meal. I like to cook, there's something therapeutic in it I guess, and I'm excited all over again by the thought of all the things I could make for him.

As I sit and watch him eat, I let myself wonder about him. Where does he come from, what's his life like? I decide not to ask, though; I know it's unfair to ask for something I'm not willing to give back, at least not yet. The conversation I'd had with Rocky earlier comes back to taunt me, and I hear his words in my head. Just how much can I give to him?

My thoughts are interrupted by my phone buzzing in my pocket. Goddamnit. They sure do have some timing, don't they? He looks at me curiously and I stand up, dropping a kiss on the top of his damp head and telling him to eat, I'll be right back. Lucy jumps up from the kitchen floor and follows me as I step out into the garage to take the call.


End file.
